four days before christmas
by korel.c
Summary: AU; it is four days before christmas, and kurt goes for some last-minute shopping. puckurt, M for sex and fluff.
1. four days before christmas

**A/N: **It's not mine - and I recommend that you read it in serif font. it was written in it, and to me, looks better. any grammar 'mistakes' (varying levels of capitalization, tense-jumping, weird punctuation) are intentional. any spelling mistakes are not.

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**four days before christmas

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**

it's four days before christmas, and kurt has to do some last-minute present shopping. he hasn't gotten mercedes one. he always has, in the past, but they're not so close right now and it hurts. but it's alright, because he's got all these gorgeous boys to look at, and their lovely, lovely hair. and their lovely, lovely scents, and he's shivering now, and that's not that great, he's not even outside yet!

Pull it together, Hummel.

It's only midnight, and the lights are up, and the snow is falling. So what if Lima is a small town? Business is business, right? And he's right, because the mall is open. the trees dotted along his path there are mildly pregnant with snow, more snowflakes adding to their burden.

the lights are up, if a little shuttered, and Kurt heads straight for the opshop.

Mercedes loves that shop, he remembers.

Before he leaves, he puts his gloves on. They were a present from his father, two years ago, and they still fit him snugly.

He has his hands to think about. Do you think they get that soft by neglect? No, it's work. Actual, hard work, keeping them soft. Anyway. Shopping. That's good.

Yes. Shopping. In this cold, cold weather.

He pulls on his scarf, making sure it's the wool instead of the muslin. Fashion is fashion unless you get frostbite. then it's called survival. Kurt shakes his head, and pulls the sweater on, the thick red sweater and the gloves making him look bulky, but he sets off out of the door anyway. the cold assaults him straight off, cutting into his cheeks, but the snow is wonderful and bloody freezing, and his feet are freezing even through the layers of thick socks. But he trudges through the lumpy snow anyway.

The lights are up at the opshop, and he can see Mrs Schuester bustling around, keeping and arranging everything so that they're all on display. Kurt smiles and sighs - Mrs. Schuester's romance is kind of desperate, but he's a kind-of desperate romantic himself.

Kurt shrugs, dislodging a patch of ice on his bulked-up shoulder, and walks into the warmth of the mall.

right. so. mercedes. he walks into the shop and begins to rustle through the clothing for her. mercedes trusts his taste. he trusts his taste. if everyone would just trust his taste, then there wouldn't be walking fashion disasters like ... finn's flannel. Honestly, that boy...

kurt shakes his mind away from finn. he's over that now.

really.

he finds a shirt that mercedes would adore and walks up to the counter to pay. he makes small talk with mrs schuester, and notices that the snow outside is falling harder. the lights in the store, already blue and dim, begin to flicker as the electric wires hang low with snow.

"Aha, Mrs Schuester, I've got to get going. I don't want to get caught in a snowstorm."

she smiles at him, a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and pats him on the head. her smile says 'run along, little boy', and Kurt's kind of glad to go. he tucks mercedes' shirt into the cotton bag she's given him, all recycled and fantastic, which he cares about because he likes doing his part in saving the envrionment. he looks out the glass display.

the lights behind him cast illumination on the snow, which is about twice as thick as it was when he walked in. he winces.

a shadow falls in the light, and kurt looks up for a second. there is no one there, only the muffled snowfall. Kurt shakes his head. Perhaps he was imagining things.

he pushes the door open and walks through.

it's solid, he wonders dizzily, a moment later. his butt is rather cold, but that's only to be expected since he's sitting on the snow. solid, and a bit firm. like the warm leather sofa his father bought him when he was four and his mother was still alive. he can still remember that sofa, black and sun-warmed. he might be a bit dizzy, but kurt is wondering why that sofa has made a re-emergence into his life after his father threw it out when the springs poked up, all jagged-like, through the seat.

mercedes' shirt, the white one with blue shoulders, is open in the slushpile. kurt scrambles for it. it's important. but he can't get a grip on it, the gloves impede his movements. he mustn't cry. he doesn't know why he's crying. tears will only freeze, tonight.

it's christmas in four days.

"Oi, Hummel."

Kurt freezes. Oh, great.

"Why don't you look where you're going? Oh, wait, I don't want your dirt-brown eyes staring at me. Who knows where those eyes have been looking?"

Kurt looks up. Puck. Of course it would have to be him. Of course. His muscle stands out, even under the heavy red coat he's wearing. he matches his own clothing, kurt notes, half-wearily. of course. he had to. just great.

"there's no dumpster around, puck," he says wearily. "so there's no point in you trying to throw me into one."

"but there is a handy snowdrift," puck returns, and kurt scrubs at his eyes. everything seems so muffled around them, only the hot hot gaze of puck's eyes, contempt at forefront. "there are so many snowdrifts, and each of them has your name on them."

kurt gets up, brushing himself off. "it's midnight, puck. i'm going home."

he knows that ignoring bullies don't work when they know you by name, where you live, who your neighbours are. but he's cold, he's tired, he's still dizzy from the collision, and all he wants to do is to go home and forget about school and the disappointment of the year.

he's tired. "goodbye, puck," he says, and begins to trudge home.

behind him, puck scratches his head and pulls the hood of his jacket up. he looks at kurt walking away from him and doesn't really know how to feel. except that he's not meant to feel. he's a man, dammit.

except that -

for a brief second, when kurt hummel crashed into him and puck caught him so that he wouldn't do permanent damage to his skull by smashing into the toboggan in one hand, the part of his arm that touched his face burned. sizzled. he wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rise from it.

it still itched, as a matter of fact.

and hey! hummel was still walking away! This wouldn't do.

puck hurried after him, forgetting that the toboggan in his hand had been come to be repaired. at midnight, but so what? the guy in the snowboard shop owed him a favor anyway.

kurt trudges through the snow, his gloves under his arms and the bag dangling somewhere outside. the trip to the mall didn't seem as long as the trip back, although it was more like flat ground instead of mountains. but the disturbing thing is that he can't seem to shake the feeling that someone - someone is following him.

he doesn't like it.

the cold is quickly becoming oppressive. and the hush is becoming unbearable. he can't wait to get home to his house, set the fire going, listen to his father bang around in the kitchen failing to make hot chocolate and sticky, gooey caramel. eggnog on christmas. kurt closes his eyes, the snow on his lashes floating before him. he takes a deep breath, and keeps on trudging.

kurt is a silhouette on the wintry day. puck brushes the white stuff away from his hood as he plows through the things, the toboggan slinging from one hand almost absent-mindedly. he's not quite sure why he's following the fag...no, that's not, that's not right, the other boy, but he doesn't want some kind of faggishness-no. some kind of kurtishness - to have rubbed off on him. burned him. whatever. for a brief moment, kurt's in sight. one of the streetlights, buried under snow, throws a pool of light onto the surface of frozen-over puddles, reflecting and refracting a dance of colors. kurt stops for a moment to catch his breath, and puck stops too. he has to. kurt is beautiful.

...in a manly way. no, in a girly way. no, in a manly way. oh, screw this.

kurt hummel has always has feminine features. and puck is one hundred percent straight. really. so that's why he thinks kurt hummel is hot. because he looks like a girl. and even though quinn was an okay lay and he got with her because he could, the instant she came she was beautiful (and felt hot and tight around his cock) but her entire body glowed. it's that glow that surrounds kurt now, as he looks up at the starlit sky and puts his tongue out to catch a snowflake.

puck stops to breathe. he's not cold anymore, because he can't feel anything. his entire body is empty, but it's trembling, raring, nervous like final quarter's about to start and they're one touchdown behind.

kurt smiles up at the sky and then he _LICKS HIS LIPS_ and suddenly that's not emptiness he's feeling, it's heat, roasting heat, boiling from the inside out, so hot that he's surprised he hasn't fallen through the snow to the hard concrete below.

kurt bites his lip and puck has to physically restrain himself from slipping his hand down into his pants because a) that's a really stupid idea b) he would get frostbite on Puck Jr, c) why the fuck is he wanking over kurt hummel, dumpster boy, anyway? and d) _HE'S NOT GAY_.

"Oi, Hummel!" he yells before he can keep his voice to himself. "Do your kinky shit elsewhere where people can't see!"

he sees kurt straighten instantly, his gaze go hard, and then he flicks his head away and begins to trudge off faster. puck curses himself. why the fuck did he do that?

then, as he sees kurt move faster, he curses kurt. why didn't he respond? most times, kurt will respond to him. they'll fight, he'll insult kurt, kurt will insult him, and then he'll throw kurt into a dumpster. except in glee club, when they'll be singing and kurt will actually be happy to see him, or at least something a little more than tolerance. or outright hate. he ... kind of prefers both, actually - because there is something like goosebumps about seeing the outright hate in kurt's eyes when he walks up. something like - the fact that he exists. he ... gets off on it, almost.

he doesn't know why he cares.

but that reason is what makes him walk fast.

kurt looks back. puck's following him. puck's following him with his muscles straining and flexing as he walks, and kurt bites back a whimper. if puck wasn't such a jerk, he would be hot. he would be eyeing him all the time instead of enjoying it when puck lifts him for a brief moment before his clothes are ruined by the dumpster again. but he's a jerk. and so he's not someone to associate with. kurt walks faster. why has his night degenerated into something so horrible as being followed home by noah puckerman?

good looking, jerkface noah puckerman. but good looking. kurt huddles into himself more and trudges faster. why doesn't the snow offer him a grip to get away from noah? please -!

he runs. the adrenaline pumps through his heart, pounding and his throat is dry, the cold is dry, his scarf seems to itch and he's running. There - the Summers's house. only four houses more, and he'll be safe. there's a dumpster nearby, too, and kurt sobs with fear and he runs faster, faster away from that looming spectre.

"Kurt! Fuck!" Puck says behind him and Kurt sobs again, running away from his own feelings and the warmth in his stomach because it's like stockholm, isn't it, craving this need he needs to breathe - home.

kurt fumbles around inside his jacket pocket and realises with absolute horror that he's left his keys inside the house, and his father is asleep because the lights are dark inside.

he's cold, he's tired, and now he's locked out of the house? this is horrible. horrible.

a rattle behind him warns him, and he turns to see puck, staring at him, the red coat actually red by the sensor light rather than black in the snowflake-falling night.

"hummel," puck says gravely, and kurt shrieks quietly, dropping his bag and fleeing. cursing, puck follows, the tobaggan falling with a muffled clump over the cotton.

that boy can really run. and vault. puck blinks as kurt scales his backyard gate with ease, running away from him with his breath leaving huge puffs of steam in the air. puck matches it with his own breath and grins. this is a chase now, a chase which burns in his blood and crackles in his muscles. kurt hummel is the prey, and he is very, very good prey. puck lunges.

kurt sobs and heads for the park, slipping on stray patches of ice. he runs as though the hounds of hell are on his heels, which is a suitable comparison because puck is a complete bitch. it's not because puck is a hellhound, and he is certainly not hot. kurt comforts himself with the thought, and promptly yelps because a hand seizes his arm. he drops, rolls, doesn't think about the cold, and sprints off again. he's gotten used to this before - being bullied really helps stamina.

dear god, puck pants. maybe they should replace hudson and put hummel on the team. kurt's led him all the way to the park, and he'd only managed to get a hand on him once, and now that hand is completely useless because it's got faint pins and needles all the way through it. he hopes it's not going numb, but he can still feel his fingers. he thinks. he wiggles them just to be sure.

"hummel! slow down!" he calls. "i just want to talk!"

"fat chance!" kurt calls back, still running. "just leave me alone!"

prey don't get to say that. puck puts on a burst of speed.

he catches up with kurt hummel in the park. kurt doesn't have anywhere else to go. he seems trapped, deciding on which path to take. he leaps. they go down in a tangle of limbs, kurt breathing fast and shallow under him. puck rolls so that he's on the bottom so he can see kurt properly.

"hi," he says, and he curses himself because his voice breaks. what sort of man breaks his voice at tackling another boy, anyway?

"why can't you just piss off?" kurt says, and pulls his hand free to slap puck in the face. his eyes are glistening with tears and puck burns. he likes to see girls cry. he admits it. he's bad at dealing with it but he likes it, likes knowing that when may-leigh went off into the bathroom to sob he did it, he did it and no one else. when kurt cries though -

he burns, he burns all the way through and he is falling from a great height but he's still trying to contain kurt, who is kicking and screaming and fighting to get away.

for kurt, this is a very surreal nightmare. or maybe a dream. he's warm finally, but only because he's on top of puck in a snowbank, the light of the streetlamps in the park, the old gothic english ones, faded and white and blurring their colours together. puck stands up finally, but he pulls kurt to his feet also, holding kurt's gloves in his bare hands and kurt is watching him. has to watch him. puck's eyes are usually shallow, like you can see that what he's doing is all he's thinking of, but in the fade-white that turns the snow from ghost-white into pallid gold he's thinking something deep. deep thoughts that move from underneath, and kurt draws in his breath because he has to.

puck stares at him. around him the midnight snowflakes continue to fall. kurt wants to kick him, but he opens his mouth and finds that he can't. he closes his mouth again.

puck's hands move down his hands to bare his wrists and kurt stiffens. his hands, cold and large, are firm around his wrists and kurt hisses, b-because lightning courses its way down his spine, electrifying and heat-filled, leaving dunes of goosebumps in its wake. he rolls his shoulders but he can't look away.

but he's cold and he's tired and -

no, actually, he's not cold. and he's not tired. he's just angry.

"fuck you, puck!" kurt says, almost crying. "fuck you! just ... just fuck off! leave me alone!"

puck just watches him.

kurt curses and starts to struggle manically. "i'll scream. i will. let me go. LET ME GO!"

"no," puck says. "it's midnight. there's no one around."

a nameless fear fills kurt and he begins to struggle harder. puck just watches him. kurt turns his eyes away and tries to force puck's arms apart. it doesn't work.

"i'm not going to do anything," puck says. "if i was going to, i would've done it a while ago."

kurt continues to struggle. it's useless against puck's grip and the hordes of lightning caressing his spine, but he's got to try. he'd hate himself more if he didn't.

"i just...dammit, kurt, why don't you ever look at me?"

the anguish in his tone stops kurt for a second and he turns his gaze back. puck's eyes are like claws. claws that burrow into his stomach and eat away at his heart.

"why don't i look at y-" kurt says, his tone half-hysterical. "i look at you! all the time! moments before i fly into a dumpster!"

"i've got to, kurt, you don't understand..."

"don't understand what?" kurt snaps. "how to be a jerk? how to be a stupid, egoistical, jerkface who doesn't understand privacy? let me go, noah."

"no," puck says.

"please," kurt says.

"no."

"why do you have to pick on me, puck? why me personally? you've targetted me since middle school. just me alone. i mean, you'll help out mcconaugh and them, but i'm always - always just you - why!"

kurt breaks down into sobbing and stops struggling, looking at the trodden ground.

"hummel," puck says.

"my name is kurt," kurt says sharply. "but then again, you don't deserve to call me by that name, so hummel is fine."

the thick muscles gripping his wrist tighten for a moment, as if in pain, and then the grip on his wrists loosen, puck's hands slide up to take his hands, and then they're gone.

he should be exultant. so why does kurt feel like he's lost something? the lightning is gone. as if the clouds are gone, the thunderstorm building in his chest falling away. he's suddenly so light, but not in a good way. like he's empty. like the anger and the tension building up in him was a weight that found no resistance and just vanished.

he's not stupid enough to just sit down though. who knows what puck might do to him. he turns, and trudges away.

something at the corner of his eye prickles though, and he's crying. he hopes his tears don't freeze on his face. that would be painful. and unfortunate.

"kurt?" puck says. he sounds so lost. "please look at me."

how the tables have turned.

but it is only four days to christmas, and then seven days after that to resolutions and forgiveness, and kurt can still remember the safety of puck's arms around him and despite himself, despite himself - he turns around.

puck kisses him.

he moans breathlessly as the weight comes right back in with the force of a sledgehammer and bowls his thoughts all the way over and all he can think about is kissing, kissing puck back, standing up taller and locking his arms around puck's neck, kissing him, kissing him. his tongue is heavenly, and kurt mashes his lips into boy, beautiful gorgeous muscular boy, sucks and licks and bites and explores, and then the other boy moans and kurt smiles against the kiss and flicks his tongue against his partner's palate and curls around puck's tongue and he is So Warm he is roasting from the inside out and -

kurt breaks away, pushing away and bringing his hand up to his lips in surprise.

"puck, what?" he says, unable to make out any more. manage any more. say any more.

puck does not look him in the eye for a moment and he gets a little mad.

as he turns to whirl away sharply puck looks him in the eye and he sees that the heat is there, and it's not lightning that pours through him, all hot and scalding, it's need. Need, and his penis is hard, and he's almost completely certain that puck is harder.

Fuck.

"i...i want to touch you," kurt babbles, and clamps a hand over his mouth. puck's eyes darken further in the lamplight, and then he's flat on the ground with his hands pinned to either side and puck is a norn warrior over him, muscular and strong, his knees warm and sturdy and parting his own legs, and they are kissing again. he gasps as puck trails fingers down his neck and along his shoulder, gasps again as puck changes them into bites and nips.

he's too turned on to be angry, but anger is roiling in him now, unease and bitter, hurt anger.

but not enough not to capitalise on the opportunity.

maybe he will kiss puck, and like it, and then later he'll reject him. and puck will be hurt. and then he will know what it FUCKING FEELS LIKE!

It's a good plan, Hummel. Pummel. ...fuck.

"your house," he croaks at puck. "take me there."

luckily for him, puck seems to think that his croak is somehow okay, because he lifts kurt and begins to trudge. enclosed in the circle of puck's arms, kurt smiles. but his entire body is still jerking and jolting. just a few moments more - a few moments more -


	2. four nights before christmas

**A/N: **Graphic sex/slash and swearing in this chapter. If you are offended - please do not read it. Not for minors. Once more, all grammatical 'errors' (varying capitalization, unusual punctuation, etc) are intentional. spelling mistakes are not. Glee does not belong to me; I do not possess Ryan Murphy's musical knowledge, Ian Brennan's skill for offensive writing, or Brad Falchuk's ability to make people sob. Screwball-ish-ness, though...probably. Serif-font is also the way to go if this looks odd to your eyes. it was written in serif, and looks better.

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it's way after midnight and he's kind of tired. but not many people could stay tired if noah puckerman is looking at them with those eyes, with his fists clenched by his sides.

"where's your parents?" kurt asks him, the tension in his body still jouncing back and forth between the two sides of his chest.

"out," puck says curtly. "we've got time."

"yeah?" kurt says, playing coy. he blinks his lashes at puck and gets up, slinking over to the other boy. with a gentle shove, he pushes puck onto his couch and sinks down onto his lap thereafter. puck can't seem to breathe properly. kurt smirks. then he takes his finger and nibbles on the nail, licking the tip, watching puck the whole time.

puck gulps.

"you like that, don't you?" kurt says, in his lowest voice, that apparently still sounds like a girl according to mercedes.

puck licks his lips. that talented tongue - but kurt digresses. he can't believe he's doing this, but at the same time he wants more more more. he's wants to keep puck's eyes that shade of dark, deep color, his eyes open wide.

the fire's begun to crackle in the fireplace. it's hot in here now, hotter as puck watches him.

"it's kind of cold, wouldn't you agree...puck?" kurt enunciates the word, his name, and puck swallows back a groan. kurt's lips, forming the 'p'; the tongue click, forming the 'k'. fuck.

"but you're kind of hot," kurt says, and pushes him further back into the sofa. "actually," kurt says, and puts his finger back into his mouth - is kurt trying to _TORTURE_ him here? because it's succeeding - "i was thinking, since i'm so hot now, phew, hot," and kurt is fanning himself with a hand and smiling, goddamn it he _IS_ trying to _KILL_ him with _LUST_ oh crap even his thoughts don't respond to him properly anymore. it's like trying to think through a thick fog, a heavy thick fog hot fuck

"you won't mind it if i take off my clothes?" what? puck's brain is trying to process all of it all at once, kurt is in his lap and he is taking off his shirt and he can't think anymore. what is this - god, he's hard, he's not gay but he's so hard -

"i mean, my parka is all snowy and wet, and it's a bit chilly. i think i need a bit of...warmth, wouldn't you say, puck?" puck nods, numbly, and then kurt's hands peel off his gloves, one by one, dangling them in front of puck before dropping them to the floor. his hands, soft and smooth, undo the ties on his jacket and let it fall to the floor. he's wearing three layers under the parka.

"mm, puck," kurt hisses, and pulls the first shirt over the top of his head. his shirt rides up and puck catches a glimpse of pale stomach and he's suddenly seized by this urge to tear off the rest of the shirts all at once -

kurt can probably feel that now. puck's simultaneously embarrassed and proud and turned on.

mostly turned on.

when did the room get so hot?

kurt watches puck watching him, and he runs his hands down his own chest, biting his lip. he bites his lip again and laughs on the inside, because it's like light is him, light everywhere, glorious bright wonderful light. he's the one making puck breathe harder, he's the one, he is. he shifts in puck's lap and, yup, there's puck jr. and he feels good. so kurt shifts again, slowly, agonisingly, torturing himself almost.

puck twitches again, and kurt's smile lifts up. he stands up and puck looks almost disappointed.

"just taking off my pants," kurt explains and suddenly all of puck's muscles go rigid at once. (oh, god) puck gulps under him and kurt flashes him a brief smile before turning around and undoing the wet belt, trying to get the cold metal and sodden leather to work together.

"here," puck says suddenly from behind him, and there are fingers around his waist at the buckle. "let me give it a try."

puck's _FINGERS _are on his _BELT_ over his...his..._his..._ and it feels good, oh my gosh it feels good, he leans his head back on puck and it feels good, his shoulder is like warm leather, strong and firm and perfect. and yum. kurt's willing to bet it'll taste good, too.

kurt hisses as puck's fingers undo his buckle and slide the belt out from all the loops in one movement. he moans as the belt is flung across the room. not because of the belt, but because puck's fingers are on his fly now, and puck is pressing into his back, puck's jacket cold on his bare skin.

"hssst," he says, shivering and cold. "puck? please? take off your jacket?"

puck doesn't say anything, but his fingers fall away and kurt itches, because puck's hands felt so good right there, so amazing, so fantastic, words could not describe the feeling of puck's hands on his fly, the palms digging into his thighs and his fingers toying and playing with the metal zipper and the teeth -

another jacket falls to the floor beside him, and the sound of fabric over skin distracts him. a moment later puck's skin is warm on his, firm tanned warmth wrapping around his slender body from behind. puck's hands come to rest between his legs again, and kurt smiles and itches and feels absolutely amazing because it is.

it's dark in the room and it's hot, stiflingly humid and hot and itchy like his skin is flaking from the inside out. puck watches kurt as his face changes from smirking manipulation to unthinking need and his hands work kurt. kurt's face in the darkness, red-warm darkness of his house, his need next to the firelight, the flickering flickering firelight. his need. he wants kurt. he wants kurt so much it hurts.

kurt lifts one hand and pushes puck. just a gentle push, but puck falls to the ground with a thump. maybe it's because his legs don't work anymore. he's a pathetic man. a pathetic, pathetic, pathetic man.

but - he's a pathetic man about to get laid.

...a really pathetic man, who's had lube and condoms in the drawer above the fireplace for weeks. just hoping for an opportunity like this one. he's prepared. deal with it.

it's a present in time for christmas. sure, hanukkah is what his family really honors, but he likes the traditions of christmas. he especially likes the thought of getting presents for a holiday that he doesn't have to work for. and kurt under him is definitely, definitely a good present.

puck's carpet in front of the fire is surprisingly comfortable, kurt thinks, as he reclines on it, watching puck. they're both still in their jeans. just a step further, he thinks.

"puuuuck," he moans, watching puck wickedly out of the side of his eye. "fuck me."

yup. that did it.

puck pounces. kurt gives out an entirely involuntary yelp as he's pinned to the floor. screw playing with kurt and making him moan by going slow. there's no conceivable way he's going slow. not with kurt moving like that, making noises like that. saying his name like that. 'puck.' fuck. fuck him. fuck him, yes, yes, he likes that idea.

he undoes kurt's zipper in a matter of seconds, pulling the wet jeans off kurt in one long tug. there's another pair of long pants under it, but it's just like unwrapping presents on someone's christmas day, box after box after box. puck treats kurt with a smirk, almost a happy grin, and pulls off his own pants, strips himself down to his boxers without thinking much past fucking, fucking, fucking.

his grin is irrepressible.

"what's this?" kurt says, as puck lays the box of condoms and lube in front of him. he picks it up out of curiosity, and puck shoves his hand down kurt's pants to distract him.

kurt's eyes roll up to the ceiling. puck smiles, and pushes the box and tube aside so kurt doesn't think about it anymore. he intends to fuck kurt, and he's bloody going to top. No cock is coming anywhere near his backside.

but it's a favor, he knows, and he intends to make sure that kurt enjoys every moment.

he has always pleased every girl he has slept with (all girls are beautiful when they come) and he knows how to wank, so it can't be that difficult, right?

(he tries not to think of what it will be like to see kurt come, because he's hard-on-causing beautiful right now, and when he comes, well, puck's not entirely sure how he's going to react)

kurt writhes, a smile curling on his face, as puck's large, warm hand wraps around his cock. a finger strokes up the underside of his shaft, and kurt draws in his breath and moans. he has to moan. it feels amazing, fantastic, amazing, and he's repeating words but he can't think of a word to describe it, except euphoric. it's brilliant. it's absolutely brilliant. the light inside him is hotter, hotter, like he's drunk lava, bright orange-yellow-burning. it's so good. like chocolate, hot lava chocolate, melting into him and making him burn.

he meets puck's eyes. puck's eyes are dark, dark and the lava ignites, ignites and fills him with want, fills him with need.

"I need you," he moans, and puck's eyes darken even further, and the hand in his boxers is moving faster and faster over him, stroking him and he throws his head back and lets a strangled cry out, like a D half-flat because he no longer can think about music, music and making music and making puck make that interesting whimper sound just by breathing different notes -

"puck, puck, puck,"

puck moans, long and low, almost crooning it. kurt forms his name every single time, like a bubble, his name and the coarse syllables filthy on innocent, innocent kurt, hot, fucking hell, kurt hummel.

"puck, puck, puck, please, puck, fuck me,"

and his other hand dives into his own pants.

"nonono," kurt says, and kurt is all warm and close to him, his eyes deep and mysterious and playful in the crackling fire light. he's an old soul, puck thinks, through the fog and haze and fuck it all -

puck kisses him, moves his tongue as he moves his hands, and kurt curves trails the lines of puck's shoulders and they're all sticky with sweat and kurt breaks away and sucks on his nipple and -

_FUCK_

_SO GOOD_

kurt clicks his tongue and tsks. "bad puck, bad boy." he doesn't seem strained by puck's stroking at all. puck grits his teeth. this is a challenge, now. puck doesn't lose challenges. puck runs a finger along the head of kurt's cock, and kurt hisses for a second before going back to look at him. okay, so - not unaffected, just ... resistant.

"bad boy," kurt says, "bad boys need to be punished."

kurt shifts closer, his tongue licking down puck's neck, down the shoulders and over his pecs. his hands find the elastic of puck's briefs and pull them down his legs.

"bad boys' punishment are..."

kurt manages to curl around puck's hands and his astonished expression. it's terribly exciting and he can barely manage to control himself, because puck's hand on him is so so so arousing. it feels so good. it feels so bloody good. so fucking good. he's going to come, but he's not going to come before puck, because that would just be embarassing. what kind of seducer would he be if he gave in? a bad one, that's what.

he can't believe he's doing this. but he is.

...and the fact that puck is so big makes his mouth water. his indrawn breath draws puck's attention and puck's smirk.

he's not going to be smirking for much longer.

puck lets out one long, narrow moan as kurt lifts a finger to his mouth and sucks on it, moving it around inside his mouth, across his lips and around and under his tongue.

"bad boys," kurt says again, still not exactly believing that he's managing this, his voice all low and wavering and nervous (he's actually husky to puck, husky like a girl, sultry and raspy and needy) - "bad boys only get to watch, instead of feel."

puck gulps.

"but then again, i've been a bad boy, too," kurt's smile is positively wicked, and puck loses rhythm.

"let me suck your fingers," kurt moans. "i want to taste you."

trembling furiously now, puck lifts his hand. kurt pouts. "not that hand."

puck resumes stroking him, slower. "i'm open wide," kurt says, and that's enough. puck shoves his other hand at him.

kurt watches him the whole time he's licking each finger, spending time on it. dear god, that hot mouth and that tongue, savoring, relishing each finger as he sucks on it. kurt, sucking on his fingers by the crackle of the fire and the musk in the air. it smells like cologne, like perfume, and it is intoxicating.

"you've been a good, good boy," kurt says, and his head dives down and his mouth is so warm, so warm and so wet, around puck's cock. oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck

so good

mind-blank

_mind-blank_

_nd-blank -_

_blank-  
_

kurt licks up his shaft, taking puck's tip just behind his lips and flicking it with his tongue, lightly, gently.

above his head puck is groaning, groaning and moaning and making abortive measures to say kurt's name.

kurt kind of likes that. so he smiles, and sucks puck in a little further.

puck's efforts to say his name grow more frequent and more incoherent. his name is definitely not 'kummel'. but he doesn't mind that, since he's the one making puck's eyes roll back in his head and the words from his throat, that glorious glorious voice, stutter.

he sucks him in further, careful of his teeth, goes slower and infinitely slow, watching him the whole time. puck swallows every other second, and he can't seem to look away, look away from kurt moving down lower, lower lower on his cock. finally kurt's midway down puck's length, and he sucks it in tight, tight and hard and really really strong, and puck grunts.

kurt pushes down with his palate and swirls his tongue around puck's cock and releases, and he smiles up at puck with satisfaction. puck's cock bobs a little bit, and he's boiling, he's at total boiling point, and he sucks puck's penis into his mouth the whole way, taking a deep breath so that he doesn't need the air yet and he can take it all the way down -

"_KUUUURT. FUCK_. You feel so good, baby, please."

he likes it. he really, really likes it. this bully - he's not so strong when his cock is this deep in kurt's mouth, his hands in kurt's hair, his legs muscular and okay, kind of hairy, but they're very masculine so he likes that.

"yes, kurt," puck says, his mind completely blown. puck knows his words are fucked over because he lingers on the early consonants and doesn't realise there's end ones before the next word. and then he realises that his mind is also fucked. just like he is. not physically of course ... that's what kurt's going to be... kurt smiles and doesn't respond mostly because his mouth is still...busy. puck smirks. he's happy that kurt's mouth is so busy, and his eyes are so lost except for what he's doing. the humming, thrumming fog boils into his brain and body, and he's thrumming all over, throbbing where he's hot, he's so hot.

kurt sucks in a breath and begins to hum a little, mocking tune, threading his tone with deliberate rasp, and can't hide the bubble of laughter that flops into his throat. puck has stiffened up so much, and even more so between his lips, that - well, it's just funny.

the lava in him seems lighter now, like cotton candy. molten cotton candy, but still - light and fluffy. when he looks up at puck now, all he's seeing is noah, his defenses completely lowered. not a bully. not the boy who threw him into dumpsters all the time and carried him to the nurse's office after glee club when mcconaugh broke his arm before it and not the boy who runs on the football field and boasts about being badass to all the girls. just...puck. he sucks half-experimentally and grins again when puck lets out a cry and his name comes through those lips.

"_kurt_..." puck tilts his head back to face the ceiling, watching the dance of the patterns, red-black shadows. christmas. his face smiles. christmas is coming soon.

the window outside showing the snowfall is lighter now. the clouds have gone, a little.

but he is so warm now, so warm, so warm. he looks down again.

a shaft of moonlight breaks through the snowclouds, and it mixes with the dancing firelights.

kurt looks up at him with those dark eyes under the eyelashes as long as a girl's, and puck finds his breath being taken from him, stolen from him. kurt smiles and puck draws in a breath, deep and slow.

"i...i want to be...i want to be in you." he coughs out the words, finally making it. and kurt is waiting for him, his face so mysteriously serene in the fiery shadows and flickers of orange, smiling and tempting.

"was that so hard to say?"

YES. because puck is not gay...not gay...n-oh, screw this. yes, screw him. Screw him.

kurt smiles and his pupils dilate, they get so large he could fall straight into them and not miss a thing about the world -

"yes -" kurt hisses, moans, pouts. "fuck me, noah."

puck's heart skips a beat. he's poetry to watch, kurt - a pale arm, leanly muscular, stretched out over the carpet blued by snowlight, leading up to a shoulder with slender lines of bone. puck trails a finger up it and kurt shivers.

puck doesn't protest. it's like a secret that they share. a secret that kurt can say because he's about to fuck kurt up the ass, and that - well...'noah's not such a big deal, after all.

in the moonlight, with kurt under him, puck feels like - feels like - well, he shouldn't be feeling too much, because he's a man, except warm and tight and fuck

and so when he cracks open the lube and squeezes a bit onto his fingers, they're shaking.

"um," he says, and kurt gets the treat of seeing noah puckerman not know exactly what to do. instead he turns around to face the window and sidles into puck's lap and puts his head on puck's shoulder and turns to face puck and he says, "do it."

puck strokes himself, wanks himself until his cock is slick with it, slick and beginning to burn because it's that type of lube, and then a lubed-finger finds its way into the only thing that matters. kurt hisses, his eyes wide when puck looks at him. it's his body, puck suddenly thinks. when he's fucking girls, all he thinks it that they've got nice tits. a nice ass. a tight pussy. he doesn't really connect that it's their body and their brain and their way of thinking, but kurt's movement whenever he moves his fingers drives that point home. or maybe, maybe it's just because it's kurt.

"another," kurt says, irrepressible, and puck smirks. he pushes another finger past the ring of muscle, beginning to scissor it.

"it's good..." kurt says. puck slips another finger inside, slowly, very slowly, and kurt hisses, half in pain, half not. puck hooks his fingers up.

kurt hisses. "so hot," he says. "your fingers, they burn."

puck frowns. kurt's still coherent? he could've sworn that it was around here somewh-

kurt _JERKS_

okay, there it was.

"_PUCK, PUCK_," kurt is calling out, his voice so loud over the thumping in his brain, his body is so stiff, the muscles are tense and rigid. "please, please please pleaseplease _FUCK ME_, now, please, i need you in me." and puck is so hard, so hard that his cock his straining against the _VERY AIR_ itself, harder than he's ever, ever, _EVER_ been before.

the firelight dances over both of their bodies. kurt is pale against his shoulder. he needs kurt. he wants to be inside.

he tears open the condom wrapper without even thinking about it, his fingers slipping as he tugs it on. kurt is this vision under him, this beautiful, hard-on-inducing vision, and his balls are tightening because he is so, so, so ready. the wrapper crinkles as it's tossed away.

one hand begins to stroke kurt again, caressing his body and alternating long caresses with strokes. then he pulls his hand out and guides his cock to kurt.

"kurt?" he asks.

"yes," kurt says, emphatic.

he pushes in, inch by slow inch, and they both groan, kurt more high-pitched than him, as always.

he moves out, as slowly as the tide. in again. inexorable.

"_I. NEED. YOU._" kurt says as the number of movements heads into the double digits.

"_FUCK. ME._"

does he know that his voice is so loud?

probably not. puck doesn't care anyway.

"_GO-FASTER-_" kurt's teeth are clenched as he forces the words out through the molten feeling and puck's hand stroking him opposite to what how his hips are moving.

"_I-NEED-_"

puck goes faster.

rhythm rhythm rhythm so much rhythm, puck's hand stroking kurt's cock and pumping it, he's so full and so full and it's puck, latin puck with his dark eyes and his tan skin and his cock filling him filling him so good, filling him so fucking good

"fuck me with your cock, puck, _fuck me._"

"you're so tight," puck grunts out. "So tight and so hot, i could fuck you all day and want to fuck you more -"

"you're. so. warm," kurt says, his eyes rolled up in his head in a kind of wonder, it's sore and it hurts but puck's arms are holding to him to that solid leather chest and it is warm and it is safe beyond belief except where he tingles, this sea of tingles, and puck wouldn't hurt, no never never (maybe it's just the pleasure that drives away the cynicism because puck would hurt him and hurt him bad)

(but it doesn't matter because it's puck making the half-swallowed noises and the gulps and the panting, moaning and groaning. puck with his large warm hand over his penis, stroking the shaft back and forth.)

(puck, fucking him.) kurt feels so dirty, so delightfully filthy, messy and fantastic all at once. he swivels his hips in a circle and he smiles and has to force himself to breathe because it's all soo good, it's soo beyond 'good' that he has no words, just force and fog and lightning, jolting and jouncing through every single part of him. it hurts and it feels unbelievable, indescribable, unforgettable.

every part of his body is goosebumps, waves of them, a sea of them. puck's hands land on his shoulders and begin to massage them. how can puck think of such a thing - how can he multitask - how can he even begin to do something so complicated while the storms rage in his body? kurt doesn't know. maybe it's an enigma thing that people get with experience.

puck wants to go faster. so he does. kurt keens under him, rolling his hips back against him and curving his shoulders to get him deeper, and puck would pat himself on the back if he wasn't easing the tension out of kurt's shoulders. he wants a second round after all. puck forgets that this is a guy and

kurt can feel him, his length warm and thick inside him, long and the friction slick inside him, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out _IN AND OUT UNTIL IT_

there is a haze in kurt's mind. first it was yellow-gold-pallid light like puck kissing him gently in a snowdrift. next it is dark, dark musky, murky and thick, the color of puck's eyes when kurt wanted him to fuck him (and, oh, it is so much better, so much better than he could have imagined-)

puck shifts his angle a bit, bringing his hands away from their respective spots to lift kurt's legs and push them around him so he can fuck kurt deeper, hit the right places. kurt keens, the clear breathy note higher and higher as puck strikes his nerves again and again and again. keeping kurt's ankles locked together behind his waist, puck drops his hand again to kurt's cock, and strokes it. he takes kurt from behind and strokes kurt, feeling kurt get larger, stiffer, straighter in his hand. he strokes him and he strokes him and he -

the haze, the haze is red-orange, the color of the fire and the color of puck's skin, it is red and gold and dark, dark dark brown, but the light, the light - it's beginning to shine, because he can almost hear the pleasure now, a thousand pitches in pure tones, a chord with a million octaves, harmonising with eighty voices and the thrum and the thrum and oh, the thrum the throb -

"PUCK!" he screams and throws his head back, his neck with its fine bones exposed in moonlight, and puck gives in to his urges and pounds kurt, pounds him harder and faster and deeper, shifting his angle until the molten lava in his stomach is just that, something at the core of his world, his soul cleansed with fire -

the haze, ititit is fullfullfull of lightning, but not vengeful violent lightning violet, it is lazy peaceful lightning that drifts in curving arcs through the white clouds except where it is rainbow coloured, and the storm in his chest is lifting him he is so serene -

it's -

_it's_

_it's_

kind of -

_kind of_

_kind of_

_kind of_

amazing -

_amazing_

_ amazing_

_ amazing-_

_ amazing -_

_ AMAZING -_

Puck pulls out, and he slams back into him, and kurt's insides are on fire all at once and his eyes snap open because the force of the thrust is such that all of his everywhere are on fire at once, and puck is gliding his fingers, the fingers that burn, across every limb and every part of his body (_HE'SONFIRE_)

"'msohooot," he says, his throat clenched against the pleasure.

"Mynm," puck demands, half wordlessly, and bites down on his shoulder, sucking on it.

Kurt grits his teeth and focuses on trying to ride his high, and puck works his burning finger down to wrap around his cock and stroke it once, leaving that line of burning burning burning

movement

nnnnnnghnnn

kurt pushes his knees together and that only makes puck go deeper, deeper, and deeper still.

"I'm going to come-kurt, I'm going to come," puck whispers, his voice breaking and his arms too tight around him shaky and the sucking on his collarbone becomes unbearable with heat and pressure for a moment and the grip on his penis - why are his hands holding him up on the floor when they could be doing other things, and he'll do other things when his hands can move again - the grip on his penis is so tight, and then puck strokes him once, twice, and -

"i'm coming, puck," kurt breathes, light and gentle when he should be croaking it out, because that's what it feels like. his whole mind is resonating with sound and his body is thrumming with light and he can't see, he can't see -

he doesn't want to see. puck watches the moment as it crystallizes before him, and something in his head switches off. he can't really register anything that's going on in front of him, but his mind stores the image anyway, because his mind tells him that it is beautiful, and puck agrees numbly.

puck comes. his come jets out of him into the condom that he's put on, the latex of it rubbing against kurt, so tight, so hot. he speeds up his thrusts and strokes and a moment later kurt clenches down on him so tightly that he couldn't pull out even if he wanted to. but he does. because he has to.

"second round?" kurt asks, sated and perfect. his carpet's all messy with kurt's come. but that's alright. because he's had the best experience. puck grins and nods.

kurt rolls away gingerly and snuggles up against him. "maybe later. i'm tired. when do your parents come back?"

"next weekend," puck mutters, abruptly in a foul mood again.

"after christmas?" kurt says, surprised.

"yeah."

"well. guess i'll just have to make your pre-christmas days very, very good, p-uck."

puck grins, and nods. his mood isn't exactly great, but it's not too bad, either.

it's almost light outside. he closes his eyes, and falls into sleep.

he's woken up in the middle of the night when kurt takes him into his mouth again, but even though he's generally cranky when his sleep is interrupted, he doesn't mind it at all.


	3. three days before christmas

**A/N: **All that remains is fluff. As usual, grammar 'errors' are intentional, but spelling mistakes are not. Don't own, and it looks better in serif.

* * *

"morning," kurt says.

puck levers himself up, and shivers. the fire died out sometime in the middle of the night, and it is cold. outside, the snow is still falling; the snowdrifts that are untouched are higher than ever, which means that his driveway is buried under seven feet of snow (an exaggeration, somewhat, it's maybe more like half a foot.) everywhere else is already shoveled out - either manually, or someone's brought out a home snow-shovel. the public ones must have come around sometime after he fell asleep, because the roads are clear.

"you're still here?" puck asks, quietly. doesn't kurt have to go home? he's sleepy enough not to think about faggishness. that only happens once he's had enough time to work up enough hate and contempt, and quite frankly he can't look at kurt right now without thinking of his voice, high and keening and musical, whispering and whimpering his name. warmth lights in his stomach, almost cold where he's so hot, and he shakes his head.

kurt traces a hand over his stomach, and puck shakes his head further and pushes it away. kurt's face falls, but puck hauls himself up.

"brush my teeth," he says, the way kurt runs his tongue over his lips (his or puck's) beginning to play in his mind over and over, like a skipping record.

"oh," kurt says, and smiles for him, still happily naked, and puck grunts at him. he pulls on his jeans as he goes - there might be a few feet of snow outside his window, but his window is open - WHEN WAS IT OPEN, IT'S BLOODY COLD - and the neighbour opposite might object. or come over to complain. and that would be disastrous.

the bathroom tiles are extraordinarily cold to his bare feet, but puck bears it. he showers as a matter of habit, brushing his teeth in the shower. morning breath be gone. pah. as he rinses and soaps up his body, making sure to clean around his extremely muscular body (that all the girls moan for) and groin because he doesn't really want to get carpet burns around there, and dried come is gross and probably unhygienic, puck luxuriates in the hot water. it is really, really cold outside. he starts to feel a little more like himself. More than he has, since his parents left. Even his hearing has begun to become a little better. The events of last night, cleansing and purifying though they were, are becoming a distant memory.

"Puck?" Kurt calls through the door.

Puck stops showering instantly. Memories flood through his head, and his morning wood instantly becomes morning rock. Or concrete. Or diamond.

He shakes his head. He's no pussy vampire who sparkles or shit like that. Even though his cock is actually a girl's best friend...

...and Kurt's...

He shakes his head.

"Yeah?" he calls through the shower and toilet door. "What's up?"

"Do you have any clothes?" Kurt calls back. "Mine are still wet. I hung them up in your laundry, but it's really cold out here."

Puck shoves the shower door outside and wraps the towel around his waist, opening the toilet door and walking out in a blast of steam.

"What are you doing still naked? You'll freeze yourself in this w-"

Puck trails off because Kurt is naked. And he's smiling. And his eyes are vacant because he's staring at Puck's chest and swallowing. Something in his stomach lights. But it's mostly because Kurt's naked and he remembers last night. Because men don't feel. Emotions, he means. Not skin. Because he remembers Kurt's skin. And how Kurt touched him. Yeah.

"Oh, never mind," Puck says. "Come on."

Puck's junior year football jersey is still a bit too big for Kurt. The edge of the shirt goes past his knees. He hasn't quite realised that Kurt is actually so much smaller than he is, and a twinge of guilt wracks him when he realises that this is why it's so easy to toss Kurt into a dumpster. Then he doesn't think about it at all.

(he wonders why he's actually feeling protective of kurt, and then he remembers kurt's mouth on his cock and his tongue stroking the-yeah, that's why. nobody, Nobody Else, is going to get to bully kurt. ever. not if it means kurt's tongue is going to-think about something else, noah. stop being distracted.)

"Don't you have to go home?" Puck asks, trying to act detached when he's really not. Because he's still staring at the back of Kurt's shirt when Kurt leads the two of them out into his living room, staring at his name on Kurt's back and finding himself smiling.

"No," Kurt says, whirling to look him in the eye. Puck stops smiling instantly. It's not...It's not masculine.

"Uh, I...Well, my dad's not really one for the Christmas spirit," (neither is Puck's family, he wants to add but doesn't) "-and he's going to think I'm over at Mercedes-" (fat girl, his mind said, with awesome voice, so, much much respect) "-or, Brittany's house."

(brittany?) "Brittany?" What the hell did Brittany have to do with Kurt? Kurt was gay, right, and...hang on, no one kissed that well without prior practice.

"Yeah?" Kurt said, looking innocent and putting a finger into his mouth. Puck gritted his teeth and locked his gaze on Kurt's, using all his concentration to not show anything out of the ordinary. It felt more like morning steel...

"Brittany and I are good friends."

"Did she teach you how to kiss?" Puck said, even managing to sound just interested.

"She was my first partner, yes," Kurt said, smiling.

Morning steel, hell, more like morning ... weights. Lots of weights.

Puck almost collapsed with his hand over his eyes. Then he didn't, because that would be unmanly. Instead, he cleared his throat. And tried not to look at Kurt's ass. Or think about Brittany naked with Kurt and him in the same bed. Or Santana and Kurt. Or Quinn and Kurt. Or anyone and Kurt with him in the same bed. Fuck. Hot. Um, what was he thinking about again?

"So," he said, and was proud that his voice didn't waver or crack even a little. "What do you want to do?"

Kurt was already kneeling by the fireplace, and his shirt lifted a bit -

Morning weights, hell, morning - concrete. Rock solid, morning concrete. Yeah.

"Relight the fire," Kurt said. "It's still really cold."

Huh, funny. Puck hadn't noticed. Odd, the shower's effects should've faded a while ago.

"I've got goosebumps everywhere." Kurt shuddered. "Even places I shouldn't have goosebumps."

"Mmhm," Puck said, and held Kurt around his waist. "I can think of things we could do."

"No, Puck, stop," Kurt said. "I mean, I'd like to, but uh," he looked at Puck, "I'm kind of...sore."

"Oh," Puck said, and stopped. "Um."

Morning something-harder-than-steel, hell. Morning feather boa. Wait, feather boa? Ugh! That was so gay!

Then there was a brief moment where Puck realised that he was actually still holding a boy around the waist with his not-so-hard-on poking into said boy's back, before he released him quickly and stumbled away.

"I, um," Puck said, "I'm just going to clean up."

He did. He even got out the steam vacuum cleaner to clean the carpet.

Kurt sighed. Puck's shirt was kind of dirty, but it was better than the freezing cold parka and shirts he was wearing last night. And, okay, it had the bonus that it smelled like Puck.

He sighed in ... well, hotness, remembering how Puck looked like when he walked out of the shower. And the fact that Puck was still around him, even after he ... well - Kurt felt the blood flow into his cheeks - had hot, hot sex. He sucked on his lower lip. No way he was going home. He was going to stay, recover from his butt hurting, and then seduce Puck into giving him some more. In the meanwhile -

"I think we should make hot chocolate," he said.

Puck stopped with his jerky cleaning. Ooh, jerking. Kurt got his mind back on track with an effort.

"Hot chocolate?" Puck said, then cleared his throat. "Uhh..."

"Are you alright?" Kurt asked. "Are you falling sick?"

"N-no," Puck said, his eyes a little vacant. "Hot chocolate. Right. I'll just...I'll go get the fixings for that, then."

Puck went off to the kitchen. After a half a minute of sitting on the sofa, Kurt shrugged. He wouldn't know how to make hot chocolate the proper way, anyhow.

Puck cursed himself. Stupid, stupid! What do you do when the guy you slept with wakes up-oh shit, he slept with a guy-focus-and wants to do something with you? It's different with girls. Girls, he could kick out. But this is a guy! This is Kurt Hummel! Shit, shit, shit.

"Hey," Kurt said from his kitchen door, and Puck stiffened in surprise. nonono, don't think stiffened...

"Hey," Puck said. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What's, uh, what's up?"

Up. Nonono, don't think of 'up'...

"Nothing," Kurt said, low and seductive from the kitchen doorway where he was posing. "I just thought I should make my own hot chocolate. Because you wouldn't know how to do it properly."

Puck stiffened. ...Nonono...

"Are you insulting my hot chocolate skills?" he said. "I'll have you know, I've made girls faint from the awesomeness of my hot chocolate."

"Yes, I am," Kurt said, brushing by him. "Where do you keep your dark chocolate?"

"Chocolate?" Puck narrowed his eyes. "My cocoa powder is right here."

Kurt looked at him. Just looked at him. Puck started to squirm under his eyes. "Is that what you've been drinking all of these years?"

"Um," Puck said. "Yes?"

Kurt raised the back of his hand to his forehead. "Oh my. Well, it's a good thing I didn't trust you with my hot chocolate, then." He fixed a gaze directly on Puck. "Where do you keep your dark chocolate."

It wasn't a question. Puck licked his lips. Kurt licked his lips. And started breathing heavily. Puck broke the cycle, took out his mom's dark chocolate from the cupboard, and tossed Kurt the golden box. "Knock yourself out, Kurt."

"Oh, I will," Kurt said. "Knife?"

While Puck made his hot chocolate from the powder mulishly, he kept watching Kurt out of the corner of his eye. Kurt whistled some tune that Puck didn't know, while chopping away at his mother's chocolate, slicing it into tiny chunks. What...Why...

"  
Milk and brown sugar?" Kurt asked, the corner of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. Puck suppressed the urge to lick Kurt's tongue. And then kiss him. And then bend him over the kitchen top.

...Okay, feather boa gone. Wood back.

Puck patted the containers beside him. "Only white sugar, sorry."

"Okay," Kurt said, frowning. "Whipped cream?"

"What?" Puck said.

"I'm making enough for two, so that you can drink hot chocolate the proper way. And you need whipped cream to really ... enjoy it. Where's your cream?"

"Um..."

"Oh, well, I suppose it will have to do without. Surely you have marshmallows?"

Puck grinned. "Yeah, got those. Bottom drawer."

Kurt bent over to get it.

Puck pressed harder against the counter. Damn libido...

"Puck?" Kurt said, looking up from where he was. Puck started stirring faster. "Where's your marshmallows?"

Puck narrowed his eyebrows and dropped to his knees. He stared blankly at Kurt's hand, holding a pack of marshmallows.

"Wha-" he started, just as Kurt kissed him.

Puck kissed back, twining his hands into Kurt's hair, even as Kurt slung both his arms around Puck's neck, the plastic of the marshmallow bag cool on the back of his neck.

"Okay!" Kurt said, breaking away. Puck blinked, slightly stupefied.

"Um," he said, and Kurt bounced straight back into making his hot chocolate, heating the milk up in a saucepan, mixed with chunks of melting dark chocolate, ladling the mixture into two mugs that he got out from the cupboard. As Puck watched Kurt's scrunched-up face while he judged exactly how much sugar he could put in and exactly how many marshmallows would fit, Puck smiled a bit to himself, and stuck his two mugs into the microwave.

"Okay, you win," Puck managed to get out, in between long, slow sips of Kurt's thick, creamy hot chocolate. Kurt watched him with a smug expression, while drinking from his own mug.

"Needs cinnamon," Kurt muttered under his breath.

The chocolate could be better? Puck puffed out a sigh of simultaneous longing and regret. This chocolate was good. So hot and thick it almost burned his tongue, but gooood.

Puck licked his lips to get some of the thick stuff off it, and had the distinct pleasure of watching Kurt's gaze grow vacant. He flicked his gaze away for a moment, not quite believing he was doing this. He dipped his finger in his hot chocolate. Then licked it off.

Yep, there went the vacant expression...Another try. Another!

Kurt scowled at Puck. There was no way that Puck wasn't doing that on purpose. He just dipped his finger into-ooh. Hang on. What was he thinking about again? Oh yeah. Revenge.

He dipped his pinky into the chocolate and licked it off. Slowly. Payback's a bitch, huh, Puck?

"It's really, really cold, Kurt. Can I put a shirt on now?"

"It was your idea," Kurt pointed out. "Who asked you to take your shirt off and slowly lick hot chocolate off the finger streak that you smeared on your chest?"

"You did," Puck protested. "You were the one who tried to lick my neck with the chocolate you put on me!"

"Oh, yes," Kurt said. "An excellent idea."

Puck rolled his eyes. "I think your clothes are dry now."

Kurt looked down. "Do you want me to go?"

Puck thought for a bit. Not really. He didn't really want Kurt to go. Pulling Kurt into a huddle (body warmth, sharing body warmth, not gayness, really, definitely not cuddling) he leaned back against the couch. "Tobogganing?"

Kurt smiled up at him, a shy smile that lit up his whole face. "You have one?"

"Uh," Puck said. "It's at your house."

"Oh, right! I should put Mercedes' shirt in my house. It's probably soaked through. Come on then!" Kurt struggled to his feet, kissing Puck to distract him enough to let go. It worked.

Puck carried the toboggan under his arm as Kurt skipped ahead from him, holding his head up to the sky and smiling. He blinked his eyelashes, and Puck swallowed.

"Okay, um, where are we going?" Kurt said.

"That's for me to know and you to discover," Puck said, smirking briefly.

"Puck!" a voice echoed. Both Kurt and Puck turned to look. Oh, shit. Matthew McConaugh.

"Hey," McConaugh slowed. His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing with the fag?"

Puck picked up Kurt in one smooth movement and ran for it. "Looking for a dumpster!"

"It's the other way!"

Puck reversed direction, got out of sight, and doubled back.

"Lying," Puck said to his carriee, "Is a good way to get out of awkward positions."

Kurt sniffed, then giggled. "Yes, okay. Are we there yet?"

"No," Puck said.

"Oh, and," Kurt said, snuggling into Puck's side, "I can think of different ways to get out of awkward positions." His smile was positively wicked. "Much more fun ways."

Puck swallowed. Then thanked fortune that he was wearing thick, cold-resistant pants, because there was no way Kurt would have missed the bulge he'd just gotten.

Kurt shifted around him. Okay, so he wasn't going to miss it at all.

The snowdrift was high. And huge. And Kurt stared at it, wondering just how that much snow had actually managed to form in the middle of the night.

"Whoa," Puck said, staring at it. "That's...That's perfect."

Kurt, not so much a fan of adrenaline, couldn't really agree. Then again...

"Let's go!"

If he agreed to what Puck was enthusiastic about, there would be a higher chance of him getting what he wanted. And what he wanted was - well. It probably wasn't polite to think of what he actually wanted. He hid his smile behind his glove. It was cold enough that he'd mostly forgotten about the pain, after all. Letting the glove fall away from his face and the excitement to rise within him, Kurt smiled a little more. "Okay," he said.

The top of the snowdrift was unsteady, the snow a little bit slushy. The drift had been packed to get to such a height, but it was a drift created mostly by snowflakes falling (and probably by some snow-shovels using it as a dumping spot), and so it was hard-going.

Puck set the toboggan down on the snow. Looking out beyond its curved edges, Kurt saw the slope down. The long slope down; steep and high, and the trees a ways beyond it. He bit his lip, but acceded; he climbed onto the sled, albeit somewhat gingerly.

Puck clambered in after him, wrapping his arms around Kurt. The strength of the arms, the steadiness, warmed Kurt; Kurt leaned back into him.

The trees below were fletched with lines of snow on the branches, the lack of leaves bar the evergreens; from the commercial district beyond came the sound of carolling.

"Are you ready?" Puck breathed into his ear, and Kurt was distracted. Puck's breath, hot and wet, filled him with bubbles, prickling and rising from inside his stomach, bubbly champagne throwing off the biting cold against his face. The cleanness of the snow against Puck's spice and musk.

"No," he said, his voice trembling a little.

"It'll be alright," Puck said, and pushed off with an ungloved hand.

"Oh, oh, oh," Kurt moaned, his anticipation and nerves mitigated by Puck's presence at his back. He fought a grin as Puck stiffened...both ways.

Kurt doesn't notice through the triumph when the toboggan picks up speed.

Or when the bottom cracked.

"What, the hell, Noah?" Kurt almost screamed at him through the wreckage of the toboggan. "My butt is sore - again - but this time because it was travelling through snow at fifty miles an hour!"

Puck untangled himself from Kurt and propped himself up on an arm. The nonchalance failed to work as his arm slipped through the snow. Puck's head dropped several inches. It was the shocked look on his face that made Kurt giggle for a microsecond before swinging back to rage.

"Can I make it better?" Puck offers with a leer. "Maybe by kissing it?"

Kurt glared at him. He got to his feet, dusted his clothing, gloves, and hair off, before stalking in the other direction.

Puck caught up to him in three quick strides, praising everything he could that Kurt wasn't running away from him this time,

He seized Kurt by his hands and swung him around, putting a hand on Kurt's chin and swinging his his face upward. He leaned down and kissed Kurt, dropping his hands to intertwine his fingers through Kurt's.

When he broke away from the kiss, Kurt stared at him.

"I still haven't forgiven you, you know," Kurt said. "One kiss won't do that."

"Maybe two?" Puck said. "Or three?"

"Or more," Kurt said, but he seemed less annoyed.

they bring the toboggan in for repair at six in the afternoon. walking out again, the shafts of sunlight through the clouds angle in to shower them with gold. when kurt tells him so, puck doesn't seem to think much of that metaphor. but the snowflakes that fall - puck doesn't mind kurt's metaphors, not when kurt makes sure to catch each snowflake with his tongue. out of sight of the shops, puck kisses kurt again. kurt smiles like he would when he sips proper hot chocolate with lindt dark chocolate, and kisses puck back. puck takes kurt's hand in his, and they stroll along the suburban sidewalks, the gold light threading through the pattern of each tree's snow-heavy branches.

it is three days until christmas. christmas, because puck's parents aren't home to argue. he can't wait for christmas, kurt realises - but at least his presents are all under the trees.

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